


Rapid Eye Movement

by cakeisatruth



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Coming of Age, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 03:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisatruth/pseuds/cakeisatruth
Summary: Five months ago, your mother told you she's dying.





	Rapid Eye Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for anger management issues, and portrayal of a terminal illness.
> 
> For the curious: pictures of these Ryder twins can be found [at my Tumblr](http://cindymeltzer.tumblr.com/tagged/briana-plays-mass-effect-andromeda)!
> 
> Thanks blackjackkent for betaing. :)

You like to think you could handle everything going on, if it weren’t for the pity. Whatever people do to try and help, it stings, but the pity is more insulting than anything. Trouble is, everyone seems to go there once they know, and there doesn’t seem like any way to keep them from finding out.

Oh, you can try. You give it your damndest, because it’s not anybody else’s business what’s happening at home. And, hell, maybe they should try just not making it so warm in third period Physics. The morning coffee wears off by then, and sometimes you swear the teacher is taunting you. Her classroom’s a sauna and she’s always showing videos, which means all the lights go off; ten minutes later she’s shaking you awake and taking the chair so you’ve got no choice but to stand for the rest of class.

When people don’t know the whole truth, disgust is all you get, but at least it’s not pity. You glare daggers at your desk through bleary eyes every time, but it’s better than being pitied. _That_ comes a few weeks later when she pulls you aside during passing period, a sickly sweet expression of _glad it’s you and not me_ on her face. With the voice to match her face, she tells you she knows what’s going on with your mother, and she’s so sorry for what’s been happening in class over the last few weeks, it won’t happen again.

You don’t get the chair taken from you anymore, but when you wake up, you hate yourself.

* * *

Five months ago, your mother told you she’s dying. You’ve tried not to think about that conversation, but it keeps sneaking up on you.

From the moment Mom and Dad sat down with you and your sister, the looks on their faces made it easy to tell they had bad news. Probably about those weird episodes of Mom’s, you figured - the ones where part of her starts jerking almost at random. A few days before, you’d told her she should get it looked at, after she dropped the second or third plate.

In a way, you were right, but now you wish you hadn’t said anything. This is what it led to: your mother fiddling with her wedding ring, using words like “prognosis” and “degenerative” while you stared at your father, willing him to say it was all a disgusting joke.

Your sister’s first words after the bomb dropped were, “But you can’t have…that,” which somehow made you want to hit her even as you agreed. Dead parents are in stories, for Christ’s sake. You’re fifteen years old. You’re not supposed to have to think about your parents being mortal.

“It’s in the early stages,” your mother admitted to the wall behind you. “At this point, most of what it affects is sleep and mood.” She eyed you, just for a second. “And the chorea, Scott. The jerking.”

 _If someone asks what happens in the late stages_ , you thought wildly, _I’m going to smack them - hard._ Nobody did, though. Your father spoke up, for the first time all night.

They knew three months ago, he admitted. They didn’t tell either of you because they didn’t want to worry you.

That’s what did it for you, when you knew it all had to be a joke or a lie, and you stormed off and started throwing things against the wall. Your mother called after you, stupid meaningless words. You knew she was lying, had to be. If the universe’s plan was to give you a dead mother, it wouldn’t _also_ have kept that from you for three extra months. No fucking way.

In the other room, you heard them go quiet, then keep talking. No point in listening in.

Four to eight years, your mother said. You did the math: even on the low end, she’d see you turn eighteen.

From the corner, something rattled, and then your sister slid open the grate connecting your rooms.

“Scott?” she said, probably the first time in years she’d called you that. To her, you’ve been “Biscotti” or just “Scotty” for years; you’ve shortened Kirsten to “Kirst” since you first learned to talk.

She was crying that night, you could hear it in her voice. But you didn’t go. There was nothing to say.

“Scott, please, please.”

You stared, motionless, into the opening of the grate.

No one is supposed to dread turning eighteen.

* * *

Your mother’s diagnosed with AEND - you can never remember the unabbreviated name - and it’s so rare there’s no treatment for it yet. The doctors can treat symptoms, but that’s it. So she goes on pills for the agitation, the irritability, and it looks like they’re working. Then she’s off them again ( _side effects_ , she mutters) and onto some new ones, working with a medical team searching for answers.

They can’t treat the sleep issues. Well, they _could_ , but only with sedatives, and she wouldn’t be able to drive. On bad nights, she prowls the house, doing her best to be quiet.

You usually hear her anyway, because you haven’t been sleeping well either. More nights than not, when she gets up, you do too, and sit with her. Sometimes there’s a cleaning project or a subtitled vid with the sound all the way down, mindless things to pass the time till morning. Neither of you ever says a word, all that time.

She sleeps during the day if she can, but you don’t have that choice. After five months of this, you’re regularly falling asleep in class; the fuckwit teachers take your chair away, or they tease you, asking if you “had a nice nap.” You know what that really means. They don’t have anything or anyone in their lives worth staying awake for.

It’d be…manageable, to be honest, if not for your grades starting to slip. You _know_ that you know the material, even if your returned tests are soggy with red ink that points out one glaring mistake after another. As for homework, forget it. The idea of trying to muddle through that crap makes you want to puke.

Look, it’s not like you aren’t trying. Here and there you even grab your homework on the way to keep Mom company overnight, but one look at it makes your head swim. So you put it away, and spend another night with her, which is more important anyway. You’re fifteen, only three years from being able to do whatever you want, and you’re old enough to decide this is stupid, useless shit.

The trouble is the parent-teacher conferences coming up.

Most parents stopped showing up when their kids were in elementary school. Yours did too, usually, unless there was something to talk about. And up till now, when there was, it had to do with your sister playing at class clown - never with you. You skated by with your grades, and the teachers _tsk_ ed and made their usual remarks about how you’d be in the running for valedictorian if only you applied yourself, or some crap like that. But you had solid Bs and low As, and there was nothing for anyone to argue with.

Until now. This year, they send home a note _and_ they call home to make sure your parents are coming. You’re not stupid. You know what this is about.

Dad says he’ll be there, but no one’s surprised when he gets a last-minute work conference and your mom has to go instead. When you hear her car pull into the driveway that evening, you run and jump into bed, and your sister shuts the door behind you. With the covers over your head, you can just barely hear her insisting to Mom you’ve been asleep all afternoon. The best part of being a twin is having someone who goes along with your plans - you don’t want to deal with this now, or possibly ever.

Then you fall asleep for real.

When you wake up again, it’s to the smell of cooling takeout. You debate whether to go for it, hearing low voices in the kitchen, but hunger wins out.

A container of cold fried rice never looked so interesting. Of course, it helps you to focus on not noticing the glances your mom and sister are exchanging. They could be a little subtler about cutting their conversation short the second you walk in.

You’ll think it over later. Right now, you’re starving. Sitting down in the seat your sister’s conveniently just left, you empty the container onto a plate. Mom sighs, squeezing her coffee cup tighter.

“You’re not going to ask what they said?”

That’s direct, even for her. Could be the meds not working, could be she’s just that upset. Or she’s grumpy that she can only have decaf anymore. You shrug and mutter, “Can guess.”

“Oh, Scott.” She sighs again, rubbing her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“Mom,” you say, exasperated, “it’s not like it matters.”

Wrong thing to say. You realize it as soon as her cup hits the table and her mouth draws into a scowl. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? When you get out of school, what will you do with yourself?”

“I’ll figure it out,” you retort, because that’s better than saying a person shouldn’t have to decide these things at fifteen, even if it’s true.

“And _until_ you’ve got it figured out, you need to do well.” She can thrust the datapad with your progress report on it, but she can’t make you look. “You’re only passing gym.”

“Official grades don’t get posted for six weeks. I have time to pull ‘em up.”

“Then do it.” She sets the datapad down more forcefully than normal. “I want you to at least _try_ , Scott.”

The pressure in your chest heats towards boiling. “What do you mean, I’m not trying? Do you have any idea how much I’m doing?” you spit, forcing yourself not to yell, because she’s dying. You will not yell at a dying woman. You will not…

“Are these grades what comes from you doing your best? Honestly?” The line of her shoulders goes tight. “Should we be getting you extra help?”

 _And flushing another hour or two of every day down the toilet?_ “No way!”

She presses her lips together, like she’s forcing herself not to blow up. “Then _pull. Up. These. Grades._ ” The datapad’s off, but she jabs her finger at it anyway. “I’m giving you two weeks.”

The game’s rigged against you from the start; you see it instantly. “Mom, Sager only uploads grades once a month, nothing’s gonna change - ”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She holds up two fingers. “Two weeks. End of story.”

You will not yell at a dying woman.

“You don’t get it!” You don’t yell, but your voice rises by itself. “It’s all stupid and useless and I don’t need it anyway. Any of it! No good reason to learn this crap. I’ll never even use it once I graduate.”

“That’s not much of an argument if you don’t graduate in the first place,” she snaps.

“I shouldn’t have to learn it if I’ll never use it.”

She waves a hand in your direction dismissively. “Take it up with the school district, Scott.”

“You don’t get it!” Before you can start really hollering, you storm off and slam your bedroom door. Not something you’d ever do if Dad were here; you made that mistake a couple times, and both times he got in your face shouting about how much doors cost. Like the cost of a door matters more than his own damn son.

Then again, he’s never here anyway.

* * *

There was a time you knew what you wanted to be when you grew up - a soldier, just like your dad. Now, that idea makes you laugh at best and sends your stomach churning at worst. There’s nothing there to emulate, not even at work.

He used to be a good soldier, too, but now things are up in the air. He thinks you don’t know, but you’ve heard those one-sided phone conversations. There’s some new project he’s working on, a design he’s testing independently of the Alliance. And from all sounds, they hate it. What it is or why they’re against it, you’ve got no idea. Questioning him is like talking to a wall.

Hell, you could probably even help if it was something worth the fight. You’ve been coding since you were seven years old and playing _Circuit Shop_ on the computers in the lab where Mom used to work. But why would Dad know that? Not like he’s here to see it.

For now, what is there to do besides bide your time? Every day is one day closer to graduation, to adulthood, to being able to do whatever the hell you want without answering to anyone.

But the closer you get to eighteen, the more you have to worry about your mom.

* * *

You’re glad conferences are over, but it’s a double-edged sword: now everyone knows what’s going on with Mom. That’s when the pity sets in.

The teacher who used to take your chair away pulls you aside before class to apologize and promise it won’t happen again. Another offers to let you see the school psychologist, reassuring you he’s very nice. You grit your teeth, if only because you don’t want to give them an excuse to drop your grade any further.

That pity, though - it’s the only thing that makes them cut you a break. Your history teacher’s still a hardass, but most of the others cut down your assignments where they can, shortening the required length of a paper or marking only a fraction of the practice problems for you to finish. Part of you feels guilty, but the bigger part says you should shut up and go with it. Your mom wants you to get your grades up, after all. This should make her happy.

The nights aren’t so good. You come into the kitchen somewhere around two, and Mom’s at the counter, filling containers of soup to freeze. When she sees you, she shakes her head, lips pressed into a thin line. You go in anyway.

“No,” she says, shaking her head again before you’ve gotten three steps into the room.

“Mom,” you try, but you know the battle was lost the second she broke the silence.

She points over your shoulder. “ _Bed_.”

You don’t bother arguing. It’d just wake up everyone else.

As it turns out, two weeks later, she admits there’s been enough improvement that she’s not worrying so much anymore. So you go back to the late nights, sometimes bringing your assignments along. As she cleans, you poke idly at the questions on the screen (five out of twenty marked _to do_ ). If she notices how much less there is, she doesn’t say anything.


End file.
